This is an afternoon entry.
The most exciting part of my day so far has been the careful extraction, using tweezers, of the sliver in my overalls. I don’t know how it got there, exactly. It must have worked its way into my trousers at some point during my walk. Well, it probably happened when I was sitting in the bush, in the sun, on the dirt, in the sticks and stones, covered with crawlies like ants and black flies, enjoying a little weep. There is nothing so cleansing as a good cry in the wilderness.
The leaves are popping out all over my world. The ridges and hills in the bush can still be seen, but their outline is becoming fuzzier each day. The small ponds of water at the sides of the road are drying up, and I have to wonder what happened to the little frog that startled me two days ago as I walked by the ditch at the side of the road. His pond has shrunk to the size of dishpan. There are violets blooming all along the verge of the road, small and delicate, they would be totally invisible to anyone walking by at a brisk pace. How wonderful it is that I have the time to stop and stare.
My love for walking came from my grandmother and my aunt. They would gather my brother, my sister and myself about them, then set out into the bush or along the bed of the abandoned railway.
There were terrifying moments, such as when we passed over railway ties, one by one, twenty feet above a "creek". My aunt held my sister’s hand; she was less than two years old. My brother and I, a few years older, had to walk the ties on our own. We were frightened as soon as we looked down. My aunt would not hear our protests, and urged us on. Neither of us plunged to the water below, although it could have happened it did not. Ever since that experience I have been able to push myself beyond fear.
Without exception, our walks were a source of joy. Both my grandmother and my aunt were school teachers, who imparted information constantly as we moved along the trail, all as one. There was a companionship to those walks that I have seldom experienced since my childhood.
Now, when I walk in the bush I do not walk alone. I have my ghosts.
|RECIPES :: Cast
“He was never married; he told the writer, “When I am drunk no one will have me, and when I am sober I won’t have them.”
Joe McEwen, quoted in MacLennan, Pearl, (Curator for Dunchurch Women’s Institute Branch), January 3rd, 1974, Along Memory Lane With Hagerman People: 1868 - 1972, Corrections of errors and omissions by Edith Macfie, Olympic Printing: Sprucedale, Ontario, 1982 Second Printing, Volume One.
Pressure 102.4 kPa
Visibility 15 km
Humidity 24 %
Wind SSE 22 km/h
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